You Can't Beat the System
by thisisle
Summary: The state of being awake and conscious was a blur for some time. Archie couldn't tell when he was awake or when he was dreaming. When he did have a feeling he was awake, it wasn't pleasant. He could tell he had a fever, what with the blurred vision, perspiring skin, heat and inflammation to his injury sites, the chills that racked his body and the gooseflesh that marred it.
1. Chapter 1

As opposed to the sweet taste of victory, Archie felt the hot trickle of blood filling into the cracks of his split lips. His eyes were locked on a hardened, determined gaze belonging to his opponent. Every inch of Archie wanted to ask Mad Dog to let him win. He didn't doubt that he would oblige. But he knew he couldn't. The Warden would know, and the Warden always wanted a good fight.

Archie quickly dodged to the left, but it was to no avail. An already bruised set of ribs caught a gloved-sized fist. The redhead gasped sharply, retaliated with a jab to Mad Dog's temple. It barely caught the larger man off guard. He was quick to respond to the conversation; his hands were talkative. He didn't allow Archie a chance to recover or catch his breath. Multiple hits, one to the eye, two the jaw, and three, rapid, back to back hits on his sides were fired off.

He didn't want to go down. No, not like this. The roar of the crows seemed far away now, merely encouraging him to succumb to the steadily increasing urge to let the black fade in. It was eating at the edges of his vision, waiting only on his allowance to swallow the rest of his blurring vision. It was when his cheek, already discoloring from the ruptured capillaries and veins beneath, slammed hard against the rough floor of the fighting space did he find his strength. He allowed himself to play dead for a few heartbeats, waiting until Mad Dog turned to smile at the crowd. That was when Archie could feel the energy humming through his body- through his bruises, his scars, his brand.

He sprang up with the adrenaline of a junkie, enveloping Mad Dog's neck with one weak arm, grabbing his lower back with the other. When his grip was tightened, the crowd climaxing, Archie heaved the man to the ground. Like timber did he fall. Archie could feel the sound of skull hitting tile in his brain. The audience was in a state of euphoria, but Archie's yes were only looking for the gaze that rested behind those impeccable, iconic, round glasses. Sure enough, he was there. Archie bared his bloodied teeth in a primal snarl, maintaining eye contact with a glare. The Warden's only reaction was a hunger alighting in his eyes and the puzzling movement of his hands from his pockets to a slight adjustment to his belt.

Mad Dog did not have much to say- and to be fair, there was little time to say anything at all. Archie was rushed out of his ten minutes of fame by two of the Warden's men. They each grasped him under each arm, escorting him out of the arena and back towards his cell. The Warden insisted that it was his "room", but Archie knew better. He had a long way to go before he could call anything his room or his home again. At this point in time, he stopped hoping he would be getting back to his house, to see Ronnie, Betty, Jug, Vegas, Dad. His time in here was nice without them, in a sense. Veronica was no longer hovering nearby, always offering to do unnecessary things, going out of her way. Here, Archie got the sense of masculinity and coming of age that he needed. Hiram Lodge threw him to the wolves, but Archie would come back leading the pack.

The walk back to his cell got increasingly harder. The guard to his left said something that his pounding ears couldn't catch. It went right over his head into the guard to his right's ear. He laughed; it must have been something funny about Archie himself, no doubt. He had to think for a minute if he should laugh, too. He decided against that, deciding to focus instead on getting from point A to point B. He lost his footing a few times already, he was intent on not letting it happen again.

He could feel blood trickling from his lips, but he couldn't wipe it from his skin. The guards had a hold of him, and he realized now that he had nothing to clean up with when they would drop him off. Sure, he'd have a TV, books, more blankets, a nicer cot, and whatever else the Warden could offer. Probably another bottle of overpriced wine. But Archie never remembered there being anything to clean up with. He could always use a blanket, but he knew he'd be needing that. While he did have better accommodations than the other inmates, such luxuries did not include central heating.

When the three men arrived at Archie's cell, they let go of him to open it and shove him in. In the second or two that he didn't have their gloved hands on him, he could have sworn that he would have fallen and face-planted on the concrete. It was taking too much energy to stand anymore, to stay awake. Archie was almost certain that one of his eyes was going to be swollen shut by the end of the night. He could already feel it puffing up, involuntarily narrowing. Quite inconvenient and uncomfortable, but at least it offered a nice distraction from the rest of his wound-decorated body. It was giving him a killer headache, but he'd manage. He always does.

The guards ensured that Archie was locked in like the animal he was before walking off, snickering yet again about something that went unheard to him. Whatever, he didn't need to know. What hasn't been said about him yet? Archie was holding on too tightly to the ironclad prison bars. He could feel the rust breaking off and sticking to the sweat and blood on the pads of his fingers. He rested the side of his forehead against the bars, relishing in how cool it felt against his heated body. It was only until his legs started giving way beneath him that he was slowly slipping. God, what he wouldn't give to fall asleep right here right now. He forced himself to clamber into bed, despite his utter exhaustion. He'd only get mocked, kicked, spit on, or hit between the bars if he allowed himself to sleep against them, no matter what thermal comfort they gave.

Archie was knocked out almost as soon as his broken body hit the bed. He could feel his arm reaching down to just barely grab the hem of a blanket. He managed to pull it up and over his thigh, but got no further. The blackness lapping at the heels of his vision finally caught up to him.

The state of being awake and conscious was a blur for some time. Archie couldn't tell when he was awake or when he was dreaming. When he did have a feeling he was awake, it wasn't pleasant. He could tell he had a fever, what with the blurred vision, perspiring skin, heat and inflammation to his injury sites, the chills that racked his body and the gooseflesh that marred it. The next time he comes to, he feels all of it, can only see out of one eye, has a hard time breaking steadily, and can't get warm. He grabs all the blankets he can find on the bed, drags them atop of himself, and crawls to the corner so he can lean on the walls. He can't hold himself up to take stock of his injuries, having the wall to back him up is the best idea.

Everything was starting to bruise. His skin had a reddish tint to it, a tip of the hat to all the inflammation and soreness from the fight. Elsewhere, the ecchymoses scattered around his body were a stark gradients of black, dark purple, bright purple, and blue. He didn't have a mirror to look at his face, but he could feel the wounds there, most specifically, his lips and his left eye. Since his fever induced sleep earlier, Archie can no longer open the eye at all. It has since swollen shut, and it hurts to move his mouth. Blood had gotten into the splits in them, drying. Ice would help with that, if only he had some.

Archie tried to ease himself back into an uneasy sleep, but it seems he couldn't. Although his ears were still fuzzy, it was as if he could hear every sound. His head was so loud, he cursed his body for it. He was a shivering mound beneath his blankets, unable to stop. Soon, his teeth followed suit, chattering fast and loud. He stayed this way for God knows how long, eyes fluttering, and just when he thought he might be able to convince his body to let him sleep again, something was clanging against the bars to his cell. Archie sadly lifted his head, anguished eyes searching for whomever was causing the ruckus.

Bathed in shadow was a man, with only his outstretched arm visible. Archie almost couldn't tell what he was holding until the man stopped to allow him to read the label. Wine. Of course. Archie grimaced, putting his head against his knees, pulling his blankets to his shoulders.

"Andrews!"


	2. Chapter 2

Archie startled, whipping his head up. He winced, regretting the decision. He moved too fast, and his head was having a hard time keeping up. He straightened on his cot, allowing his legs to splay out. He didn't speak, only looked expectantly at the Warden. His entire head was heavy, making it a struggle just to open his eyes to slits. He didn't give the older man the satisfaction of talking, answering, responding.

While Archie sat and regarded in silence, the Warden produced his key ring from his pocket, unlocking the barred door to his prisoner's cell. Archie watched in cautious silence, unmoving. The Warden did not enter the cell, merely opened it, beckoning for his Mad Dog to follow. Archie waited until he was already walking away and back down the hall to stand. First, he dragged his legs to the edge of the cot, letting them settle against the cold floor. It felt so nice that he had to fight the urge to lie down on it.

He scrubbed gently at his face to wake up. He had to be alert and at his top game if he were to be so close to the Warden tonight. What the man wanted, Archie hadn't the slightest idea. He was probably going to get conned into doing something. The Warden had a bottle of wine, unless Archie had imagined that part. Nevertheless, it meant that he was trying to extend a peace offering, a gift, of some sort. Which could only mean that he would compensate for trying to brainwash Archie into being his Mad Dog for an eternity. He would never get out of this toxic loop.

The redhead uttered a long, shaky sigh before standing up with great effort. No sooner than he put his weight on his feet did he stumble over, having to grasp at whatever his hands could purchase to not fall. His heart rate skyrocketed, he could feel it and hear it over every surface of his body. He fought the urge to look out into the hall, fearful that someone had been watching him stumble so greatly. Nonetheless, he steadied, and walked to the threshold of the cell. Only, it was more of a furniture walk than an actual gait. He was holding on with great force to the bars of the cell door when he got to it, already panting.

Lifting his head through the haze it had been in, Archie could barely see the Warden waiting for him in the hall. He was leaned against the wall, clinking the bottle of wine absentmindedly against the wedding ring on his hand. Archie approached him warily, holding one hand against his side now. The pressure against his already taxed ribs was helping him breathe a little better.

"Follow me, why don't you?" the Warden started, pushing himself off the wall and leading Archie away. "Pick up your pace a little bit, it's lights-out soon." Archie growled at him, forcing himself to follow. After mere steps, he could hear a pain-staking wheeze emanating from his own raw throat. It was high, raspy, and disgusting. He tried controlling it, but the effort put forth to simply walk to the Warden's office was beyond a struggle.

He finally made it to the office, clinging to the doorframe and leaning heavily against it. His eyes were closed, he was focusing on catching his breath. "Nice of you to finally meet me," spoke the Warden, behind his desk. Archie forced himself to look across the room at him. He was leaning back in his chair, two cups set out before him. They looked eerily like the goblets associated with the Griffins & Gargoyles game. Whether or not it was true or a created image in his pain muddled mind, Archie didn't have the brain power to distinguish.

"Come, sit down. Catch your breath. Have a drink." Much to his dismay, the idea sounded heavenly to Archie. A nice cold drink sounded very nice, but what the Warden probably put in it was something he didn't want to know. He would lose either way: drink and get poisoned or drugged, or ask or refuse the drink and get beaten and privileges taken away. While he was the Warden's favorite toy, that didn't mean he was allowed to keep the slight luxuries he had over the other inmates.

Archie stepped forward, staggered to the chair set out for him. It was rigid, the arms ramrod straight and rough wood. The rest of it was cut from the same cold, unfeeling material. No cushion, no embellishments, no life to it. Just how Archie felt. A fitting throne.

"You had a great fight tonight," the Warden congratulated, raising his glass once Archie sat down for a toast. Archie could barely move his arms, but reached out for his wine glass, raised it no more than a few inches, and clinked it to his. The Warden was quick to drink his, downing nearly all of what he had in a single sitting. By the time he sat his cup down, Archie was just beginning to drink. He couldn't tell what kind of wine it was- he knew for sure it was a red wine, enough that he could feel the color of it lingering on his lips long after he was done sipping.

"You've sustained more injuries than usual tonight," the man across from him mentioned. He was leaning over the desk, breathing in Archie's scent. The teenager noticed, leaning back in his chair. "Yes," he drawled out slowly, unsurely. "I will be okay, though," he added, even a bit fervently. He had to convince the Warden that he would be fine, or he wouldn't get thrown into the ring again- meaning he'd have no chance to get out. When the Warden was relatively nice to him as a fighter, Archie had a chance to get answers. He had to prove his worth in order to get out and keep his sanity.

Slowly, the world seemed to be running away from him. He remembered the Warden craning across the desk, but the next thing he remembered was the Warden pulling over a chair next to him. Archie allowed him to sit next to him, although he scrutinized the older man with disdainful eyes.

"Won't you finish your drink?" the Warden asked, and Archie only felt it right that he did so. With him sitting so close, he was fearful to make a mistake or disobey. It would be easy to render Archie useless or incapacitated, so against better judgement, he obliged. He reached for the wine, but the Warden beat him to it, picking it up and placing it directly into Archie's hand. He hovered his hand at the base of the glass, though. When Archie took a sip he let the glass fall from his lips, but the Warden's hand was there. He pushed the glass back, forcing his prisoner to drink the rest of it. Archie gave a sound of disapproval, even tried backing away and pushing his hand away, but there was now a hand at his back, as well. The Warden was everywhere and anywhere, preventing him from leaving, from catching his breath.

He was gasping for breath by the time the Warden took the cup away. While Archie was trying to catch his breath and quell his rising anxiety, the Warden began rubbing circles on the backs of his shoulders. The rubbing motions turned to stroking, until one hand began to slide down Archie's arm, slowing and yet humming with an unreadable kind of energy when they got to his chest. His hand laid flat over the large map of bruising on his prisoner's ribs, placing his other hand on Archie's leg closest to him. He let that hand snake slowly upwards, letting his left hand abandon the ribs to meet him at Archie's hips. The Warden shifted in his seat, clearing his throat, and Archie had to settle his breathing.

Just like he had to fight the other underground opponents, Archie had to be his own Mad Dog. He fought to tear himself away from the Warden's grasp, the hands holding too tight against his thigh, the fingernails digging too tight into his skin. He could feel his hands moving down to pry the Warden's off, but he was moving underwater. He could see his hands moving in slow motion, but could not feel them. The Warden got uncomfortably close, but Archie could no longer fight. He could feel himself sinking away, away, away. He felt his back hit against the chair, his limbs going slack. His eyelids were gradually closing shut, and all he could do was watch.

The Warden took one of his hands away momentarily, Archie watched as it went somewhere near his own legs. His brown gaze and muddled mind couldn't comprehend the rest. He closed his eyes, still able to feel the Warden's greedy hands. It took a lot of concentration for Archie to muster the energy to simply move his arm, managing a loose grasp on the Warden's wrist. A weak push tried to convey his distaste at the older man's actions, but the inability to make a difference was bothersome, but the longer Archie sat there, the less he cared. It was only now that he realized there must have been something in his drink. That was his last thought before he was dragged under, unaware it was even happening.


End file.
